


A Razor Clam Dinner in Somerset

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love, M/M, Razor Clams, Retirement story, change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: A retirement story. This one presupposes that upon retirement Greg returns to the Somerset of his youth, and Mycroft eventually joins him at his own retirement. Mycroft finds the shift difficult...but with rewards.Very short, very sweet, and the clams are really the filthiest thing in there. But, then--razor clams. They are inherently obscene.





	A Razor Clam Dinner in Somerset

So, this is retirement, Mycroft thought, bemused. He stood on the shore at Woolacombe, trouser legs rolled high up his shins, feet shod in sand-shoes, the wind fluttering his t-shirt and making a bird’s nest of his hair. His partner leaned over, peering at the open holes in the sand, pointing a full condiment bottle at the hole.

“Now, you just squirt the salt water in, so,” Lestrade said, arse high, head down.

I could kick him in the arse, Mycroft thought. An empty bucket hung from his hands, the bail gripped tight in both palms as he’d once gripped his umbrella handle.

If he kicked Lestrade in the bum he’d topple over, face first. It would be pure slapstick. Mycroft imagined himself scampering across the wide expanse of mud and sand, scarpering for their car. He would leap in, turn the key, race away from this odd domestic wilderness he’d landed in, return to his old haunts. Bother Anthea about her current regime. Visit the Queen.

No, he thought sadly. Elizabeth was…gone. Camilla was far from the witch some imagined, but it simply wasn’t the same.

You can’t go home again. You can’t turn back time. Nor did he want to. He just felt so out of place in this new life.

“See—a good stream straight down the hole. That’ll rouse it. Now, watch close.” Lestrade removed temptation by dropping down into a squat over the hole, elbows on his knees, staring at the muddy sand. He held the bottle loose, but at the ready, in case it was needed again. He was beautiful, of course. Mycroft had always considered him among the most stunning men he had ever met. Today he wore white canvas trousers, a t-shirt and windbreaker, and his own white sneakers. No socks. He hadn’t allowed Mycroft to wear socks, either.

“You’ll be miserable first wave that comes in,” he’d announced, firmly. “It’s not like we’re in London any more, lover. Comfortable on Pall Mall isn’t the same thing that’s comfortable on Woolacombe beach.”

Exactly, Mycroft had wanted to say. Or, he supposed, wanted to whine. He felt so helpless, so useless here, surrounded by people who barely spoke English competently, and who seemed to think information was unnecessary. He seldom knew where to start a conversation, and the skills of a lifetime had no place on the high chalk moors or the wide, flat beaches. He realized he was in a perpetual implied pout…but he barely knew himself by the end of each day, and dreaded everything about each morning,  but for one thing. Lestrade.

Before his eyes the sand around the hole heaved. A great jet of water shot out of the hole, hitting Lestrade in the face. The other man fell over, arse first, feet swinging up, arms corkscrewing, bottle flying wide, whooping like a seal as he went tits-over-teakettle. Mycroft began to laugh—then old, trained instincts rose up and he snatched the rising tower of shell moving with majesty and grandeur up from the depths of the sand below. It looked alien, and awesome, a smooth, long tower in streaky black and grey, with white highlights along the growth rings. Mycroft grasped it firmly, letting it fill his palm, phallic imagery rising up like the clam itself. What an obscene mollusk! He drew it out smoothly as a sword from its sheath (a cock from—no, don’t go there…). To his amazement it extended a long, long, unmistakable, obscene foot, tipped with a fat bulb, while extending an only marginally less prick-like nose. The two drooping members....pulsed. In and out. In and out...

He examined it, startled—too occupied to even laugh at Lestrade, wallowing in the sand and swearing.

“It’s quite impressive,” he said. “What shall we do with it?”

Lestrade, who’d been trying to rise, leaned back, propped on his elbows. He grinned at his partner, wishing he could take a photo. _Portrait of Mycroft Holmes with Rude Razor Clam._ Dressed like a proper beach comber, ruffled by wind and insecurity—and sexy as hell with that monster of a clam balanced in his palm, pulsing its extruded foot and nose, far too suggestive to ignore.

“We’re going to hunt up a couple dozen more like it, and take them home to fry up,” he said. “Hot and tasty in a wine and garlic sauce, salad on the side, to go with that cockle chowder I promised you.”

“We’re going to…eat…this?” One of Mycroft’s brows flew up. “How scandalous of us.”

Lestrade leered and winked. “Nothing worse ‘n we’ve done afore, eh?”

“Cheeky beggar,” Mycroft said…then, with pride he’d not expected, he dropped the long, slim clam into his bucket. “Where’s the bottle gone,” he asked, looking around.

“Here it is, lover,” Lestrade said, snatching it from the sand a few feet away. He scrambled up and started looking for another clam hole—only to have Mycroft imperiously swipe the bottle from him and stalk toward a veritable swarm of holes a yard or two away. “Oi, mate—who’s in charge of this expedition?”

“Me,” Mycroft said, and squatted down to squirt the water into the next hole. He had no intention of presenting his own bum, high in the air, for Lestrade to plant the boot. His lover was a former copper, and knew far too much about putting the boot in already!

He crowed with delight as the next shell rose from the sand. He gripped it securely, drew it out, and brandished it. “Finally, an activity geared to my experience—something demanding finesse, judgement, and a critical eye.”

“Well-practiced palm skills, too,” Lestrade noted, lazy in his amusement.

Mycroft arched his brow again—then, suddenly he grinned, and stuck out his tongue. “Beast.”

“Just the way you like me.”

“Yes…” He couldn’t stop smiling. “Razor clams and salad and chowder. Good bread from the bakery we pass on the way home?”

“Hell, yes.”

“And perhaps wine after, on the patio, as the sun goes down?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Lestrade said, voice softening as much as it could and still be heard over the rolling waves coming in over the sands. His eyes, still a rich, lush brown, were tender.

And this, Mycroft thought, is why I traded in Pall Mall for Somerset, and my beloved suits and hand-made Oxford shoes for chinos and sand shoes.

The wind rose, ruffling the valiant remains of his hair, and billowing his baggy t-shirt. He glanced at his partner, who stood by watching as he harvested obscene bivalves. They smiled.

It was a good trade, Mycroft thought…and then concentrated on the clams. Once a predator, always a predator, even if the venue changes and the prey shifts from crooked politicians to razor shell clams.

The meal was wonderful. The sunset almost as good. The love making that night even better.

“I love you,” he whispered to Lestrade as they dropped off to sleep in each other’s arms. The high wind on the chalk moors sang, just as it had coming in over the beach earlier.

Here I am, he thought, an alien in my own land—and still, more at home than I have ever been.

And then he slept.

 


End file.
